


and in this life

by moonswinger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-05-26 00:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonswinger/pseuds/moonswinger
Summary: In this life? Grantaire really could not give a shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! feedback is much appreciated!

Grantaire can’t remember how it had happened, but one minute the loud bang of a gunshot was ringing in his ears, and the next minute he was waking up to vivid memories - if you could call them that - of a different time. 

Someone was calling his name, he could hear it muffled among all the other noise. Clinking of glasses, chairs shifting on wooden floorboards, garbled cheering in an unknown language. And then in present time - in real time - someone calling his name. 

“My boy, are you alright?”

They’d ushered him onto one of the benches, and thrusted a bottle of lemon juice in his hands. Grantaire can’t recall everything that had happened in the next few hours or how he’d gotten home, but that was the moment his life had gone to hell. As if fainting at the shooting range wasn’t embarrassment enough.

He’d been 12 at the time. 

 

He supposed it could’ve been worse. He’d heard of a guy who woke up one day and suddenly believed he was a chicken. Grantaire could live with the images of that far away dream place. Even if he’d grown to hate that place. 

It was dark. It was lonely. 

He’d woken many a times in the middle of the night, shivering cold and feeling so utterly miserable, only to realize he was wrapped in comforters and it was warm as shit outside and he had no reason to be miserable at all. That was before the strange dreams had started. 

He’d seen dirty faces in rags, people with teeth in such a bad condition that his mom would have shrieked at the sight of them. He’d seen a house, but it wasn’t his own. He’d seen a woman, who he immediately knew was his mother - but she wasn’t, she looked nothing like his mom. He’d seen a kid of his own age, but he couldn’t understand a word he said. He’d seen dark alleys, and strange men wearing strange clothes, a girl he seemed to adore but couldn’t name. He’d seen himself draw sketches, his hands dirtied with charcoal, and he’d seen a large man yell at him for them. 

But, hey, at least he hadn’t gotten it in his head to try and lay an egg, right? 

He’d learned to ignore most of these dreams and images, even though it felt like he was living two different lives all at once. He’d clutched hard and fast to the thought that he wasn’t going insane at the age of 12 and he wasn’t about to let go of it now. He wasn’t. 

He learned quickly that there were some advantages to this affliction of his. 

He’d chosen French as his elective at school. Not because his mother wanted him to, but because he’d finally realized what the language in his dreams sounded like. 

He’d aced every single test. Ms. Pasquier, his teacher at the time, had been so impressed. Grantaire wondered what she’d say if she knew it wasn’t her excellent teaching method that urged him to do his homework on time, but the constant nagging urge to understand his dreams better.

By the time Grantaire reached the end of high school, though, he’d become the family disappointment. He had real problems now, like girls and - after one fateful drunken kiss - boys. He was failing most of his classes, he’d discovered a thing called weed and he’d come to the grand realization that something was so, so terribly wrong with him. 

After years of trying to ignore his dreams, he’d unknowingly begun to draw similarities between his dream self and his real self. And his dream self? He was one miserable son of a bitch. 

Don’t ask him how he knew that, he just did.

It didn’t take too long for Grantaire to figure out the glaring fact that he too, was a miserable son of a bitch. He had no friends, no hobbies to name, no talents whatsoever, no ambitions and he was only in high school. Hell, isn't highschool supposed to be the golden age in people's lives or something? He fucking hated it. Him needing therapy for his absurd dreams was just the cherry on top. 

\--

“Can I sit here?”

Grantaire was so out of it that he couldn’t even tell how long he’d been sitting there. The low buzz of the drinks had already set in, his mind was blissfully unaware of the dull bass coming from downstairs or the conversations around him. He nodded slowly, looking up at the boy who’d asked,but didn’t make any attempts to move from the couch. 

The boy made place for himself between Grantaire and the the arm-rest anyway, and Grantaire would have been annoyed with all the movement if he wasn’t so completely out of it. The boy started talking, and Grantaire leaned his head back on the couch, giving no indication that he was interested in having a conversation. The guy was still talking. 

“ - so anyway, I said ‘ghosts are real’ and this dude - you would not believe this guy - he gets up and he pushes me. He pushed me! And he says ‘listen here you - I’m not going to say what he said exactly, because sometimes you just can’t give that kind of power to such assholes, you know what I mean?”

Grantaire decided to tune the guy out. Man, college is weird. Who was this guy? 

“...and it’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, people not believing in ghosts? Like...how can they be so blind? I remember when I was small, I was...maybe, 10? So we were at our aunt’s place and this one time - Did I say my aunt lives in this really ancient mansion? Anyway, so I was 10 and…”

The monotone of his voice was kind of soothing though, because Grantaire started to shut his eyes. If there was an award for most naps in the absolutely unlikeliest of places, Grantaire would have ten of those by now. He was just that good. 

“...and I can remember everything about my childhood and my past life, I’m like super good at memory stuff and remembering things - I mean, I was a poet and I can recall -”

Grantaire sat straight up. 

“What did you say?”

The boy turned to him. Apparently he wasn’t talking to Grantaire at all, but to the girl who is perched on the arm-rest - where had she come from? They both looked at him. “You’re awake,” the boy says.

“What did you say?” Grantaire tried one more time, making his words come out sharp and proper and not in drunken slurs. He didn’t know why his brain has decided to take a sudden interest in this bizarre conversation, but there was no backing out now.

The boy didn’t say anything, he just looked a bit bewildered. “Uh. My memory stuff is good?” he says finally when Grantaire didn’t look away.

“No. What did you say about your - your past life?”

“Oh, that,” he looked a little embarrassed now, turning fully to face Grantaire. “I was a poet in my past life.” 

He said it so matter-of-factly that Grantaire didn’t even know why he was asking in the first place. “How d’you know?” 

The boy stared at him. He must have been just as drunk as Grantaire was in that moment, because he leaned closer and whispered, “I can remember. I have dreams.”

Grantaire’s drunk brain felt like it was onto something, so he sat up straighter. “Dreams?”

The boy suddenly laughed - giggled, more like it - and Grantaire was about to think he was making fun of him, but then he said, “Yes, dreams! I was a poet. Do you want to hear one of my poems? How good is your french?” 

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, his mind becoming more and more clearer. He could almost hear the music now. “France?” he said unintelligibly.

“Hmm? Do you believe me?” the boy asked delightedly. Not for the first time since this conversation started, Grantaire thought he was talking to a completely different breed of human. Probably a space-alien, if the wide eyes and the wild hair is anything to go by. 

“How do you know -” Grantaire said suddenly, but his voice had lowered to meet the boy's conspiratorial whisper. “How do you know you’re not going mad?”

The question seemed to light up the boy’s entire face, his smile is so wide that Grantaire had to ask himself if he really had call the guy insane a second ago. 

“I’m Jehan,” he said, as if that was supposed to clear anything up. “And you are?”


	2. Chapter 2

It didn't take long for him to find himself spend more and more time with Jehan. Jehan, he learnt, carried poetry books everywhere, stopped to pick fallen flowers and leaves and often lost his train of thought. Talking to Jehan was like switching the channels of a TV constantly - he began with one story and finished another ten. 

He urged Grantaire to have lunches with him. The first time they did have lunch together, it was with a degree of reluctance on Grantaire’s part, but he soon began to look forward to them and especially to the silent walks back to campus that followed.

After a month or so, after Grantaire’s roommate left for Scotland, he asked Jehan if he wanted her room. His landlord had been after him for quite some time, so he was completely ready to beg Jehan, but Jehan agreed right away, nearly embracing Grantaire when he asked. 

Grantaire was ready to bet that Jehan was the first good friend he'd had since his babysitter Lila. And Lila was paid to be nice to him. Jehan was wonderful in his own weird way, and Grantaire truly liked being around him. 

The thing was, ever since that first night when he'd met Jehan, he'd been dreaming of him. And not in that way - although, Grantaire would have preferred that any day. No, he'd seen Jehan in those kind of dreams. 

The first time - he'd seen Jehan in odd clothes, sitting at a table and playing a game of cards. He'd asked to join, and he had heard Jehan talk of roses in bloom. He barely understood the language still, he assumed it was old. With his little knowledge of French, he was able to grasp some of that conversation, but he'd longed to hear more. 

His hair was longer in the dreams, and bright red - still easily recognizable with that same straight nose and timid smile. He was lovely in the dreams. He talked of books and authors that Grantaire had only ever read in textbooks and still, he felt like he knew exactly what he was talking about. His dream self would make jokes and Jehan would crack the same smile, and Grantaire couldn’t even tell if he was projecting his Jehan into the dream or if he had been dreaming of Jehan since before they even met. It felt like he’d known him for a long while.

They hadn't talked about that night at all, and if they had, it had just been in passing. Grantaire had no real plans on bringing it up ever again, and was glad to ignore whatever was happening in his dreams. Jehan, though, as unpredictable as he was, decided to bring it up during their Harry Potter marathon on a Friday night. 

“Do you remember those dreams I told you about?" he said out of nowhere, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. 

Grantaire glanced at him, then pushed a handful of popcorn into his mouth to avoid saying anything. There was a 99% chance Jehan wouldn't wait for him to continue talking. 

And surely enough, Jehan added, “I had one, last night. It was strange.” 

“Yeah? In what way?” Grantaire asked finally, wiping his popcorn buttered fingers on his pants. 

“Oh, you know…" Jehan said softly, “I saw you." 

“Really? What was I wearing?” 

“A vest. White shirt... A hat," his voice reminded Grantaire if that very first night. “You looked rather dashing, I might say. Your face was covered in grime and blood. Like a rugged hero from a romance novel.”

Grantaire snorted. "Get out of here with your sick fantasies," he said, swatting him lightly on the arm. 

Jehan giggled, shaking his head and finally pausing the movie to turn to Grantaire. “I'm serious. It was you." 

Grantaire made another grab for the popcorn. "If you say so.” 

There was a while of silence in which Grantaire stared fixedly at the screen and hoped the discussion had come to an end, but Jehan grabbed the remote and paused the movie. “I saw someone else too. Heard, actually,” he said.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. He was interested, obviously, but he tried not to let it show. 

“The weird thing - I think I’ve heard the voice before.”

“Where?” 

“Do you remember that poetry reading I begged you to come to and you never showed up for?”

Grantaire groaned, looking away guiltily, “You know I hate those kind of things…” he muttered.

“I was performing!” Jehan said, punching the side of Grantaire’s arm. He was being playful, but Grantaire felt guilty about it anyway. He had tried to reason with Jehan using the fact that he hadn’t known Jehan well enough at the time, but it was still a shitty thing to do, given how excited Jehan had been for the show. 

“Anyway,” Jehan broke in, before Grantaire could start on that tangent again, “I think the voice had been there that night.”

Sometimes Jehan said things that made Grantaire think he was dream manifested into human form himself. He had grown used to it by now. “Okay, Jehan. That’s enough Harry Potter for you,” he said, jumping up from the couch.

“I’m going to find him,” Jehan continued, like Grantaire hadn’t just tried to avoid this exact thing. 

Grantaire tried his best to not be a dick to Jehan - because mostly, it was kind of impossible anyway - but there was no way he was going to agree to anything Jehan was going to say next. 

“Good luck.”

“Wait, listen -”

“Nope.”

And he was shutting his bedroom door before Jehan could even scramble to get on his feet.


End file.
